All That They Are
by Watanabe Maya
Summary: For Spain's is an empire upon which the sun never sets; and England's is an empire upon which the rain never ends and the sun never shines. And it's futile, Arthur knows, to wish for a love that will never come to light. / SpUk. Oneshot.


_Oh...you know, this is just me trying to be prolific._So we had another concert for the orchestra and got pulled out and excused from classes for a whole day. I had a bunch of prompts listed and typed out in my phone, and one of my friends just loved them and sort of -in a way- insisted that I work on writing a real story for them already instead of just letting them stay piled up and unused. So I did. Half of this was done during the day of the concert, and the rest was pretty much polished up and completed over the weekend.

If you end up liking this fic, please please please check out the works of Artemis1000! It was one of her stories that inspired me to do this, and gave me the idea for it. She has a number of pretty lines that I just loved, and there's an air of maturity that lingers about in the way she chooses her words and writes her stories (or maybe it's just the themes she likes to work with, I don't know, hahaha).

This isn't my best, nor is this my OTP, but I'm pretty proud of the prompts that I used to make this fic up so I really hope you all enjoy. Happy reading!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia, and I don't own the image used either.

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The first time they hold each other is on top of creaking wooden floorboards in a basement of a sea-tossed pirate ship. Spain is on top of England, his dark, tanned fingers entangling themselves in the younger's fair, blonde tresses. Tongues battling for dominance, they kiss each other over and over and over again. Hungry. Desperate. Breathless. It is a cycle of both lust and enmity.

It begins with a battle – a duel of their blades. Arthur offends Antonio with a barrage of insults and '_bloody fucking'_s; while Antonio points his sword as he, too, lets loose a couple of curses in his own native tongue. Their crews follow closely behind, and their weapons begin to spar with one another. A couple of clinks, a few loud curses, and thirteen self-proclaimed 'heroic' collapses later, it doesn't take long before the two nations are deserted and left alone in the room.

Then their swords are cast aside as their armors are thrown away; and they put on their masks to escape the bitterness of reality and seek comfort in the false truths behind their charade.

Because Antonio needs Romano but knows better than to lure him like bait towards the dangers of the ship and the seas; and because Arthur misses Alfred, but has nothing left for him to lose.

It's only when the sun rises the next morning that they get to break free from their delusions, and return once more to face the real world; both with aching limbs and painful headaches.

Neither of them says anything about the previous night. Their lips are kept mum and their gazes are forcibly made distant. They resume to their cycles of rivalry and ennui, and do their best to make themselves forget. But their wills aren't strong enough, and the memory still lingers, echoing hauntingly in the depths of their minds.

The most they can do is to stay silent, and inwardly curse themselves at the sight of the sunrise.

-x-

The second time they hold each other is in the locked quarters of the board room, when the rest of the world's nations have gone out for lunch, grateful for England's announcement of an early dismissal.

It is high noon when they both find themselves in the same position as the last. Spain corners England and wraps him in the niche of his arms; then they lock their lips together as their bodies are leaning on the wooden panels of the entrance door, wrinkling their suits as they slide down onto the linoleum tiled floor.

The kisses are the same, and their temperatures are just as high. They are both still hungry for power; and they are both just as desperate and in need of the warmth of one another.

Neither of them says anything, and neither of them resists the force of the other. The view outside the window is peaceful. Sturdy barks of ochre and rich mahogany, fragile leaves of green dashed in a mesh of light and dark hues. They watch as the trees dance with the wind, swaying and bowing to the whims of the breeze. One can only hear the resonance of the chirping birds, coupled with the soft hum of the air conditioner from within the room.

Then there is a knock on the door, and their meeting is put to a stop. They put their ties back on, fumbling as their fingers hurriedly redo their buttons, and belt up their pants in an attempt to cover up their shame for the inevitable loss of their control and their manners. Pursing their lips, they gaze at each other in a silent vow of secrecy and shameful apologies.

Again, they opt to stay quiet.

And the sun is shining still.

-x-

The third time they hold each other is the last; in the middle of yellow sand and blue waters, their bodies entwined amidst fine grains and shipwrecked driftwood. Antonio's crew had staged a mutiny, and Arthur's had abandoned him in a riot, a violent outburst of longing for home and land and of threats to 'walk the plank.'

It's around five in the afternoon, from what one could tell by the sunset. There's the sound of seagulls flying overhead, with echoing birdcalls and distant flapping of wings. Green eyes of jade stare dully as the flock of feathers vanish from his sight, a blur of white fading slowly into the vastness of a subdued yellow-orange.

A man clad in the same colored cloak plops down by his side, and Arthur pretends to pay him no mind. He, however, cocks an eyebrow at the man, his thick brow arched upwards in a questioning stance; but the man fails to take notice of this and has resumed to humming a tune of yet another one of his local songs.

Another insult escapes Britannia's lips, as he mocks the Spaniard for being off-key. It leads and builds up to the very same conclusion as the last – clearly because there is nobody there with them on that island, they are alone, and nobody is watching and they don't have to worry about being seen or being caught or being judged – and yet, this time, their kisses are different.

England is the one who holds Spain this time, pushing him down and soaking his back onto the waters of the shore. He forces himself onto him just like they had done so before, and presses his lips firmly against the chapped ones of the other. But the look in his eyes is neither that of a vicious beast's, nor is it one of a revenge-seeking empire's. There's a sadness that paints over his glossed irises, and a faint trace of tears that threaten to spill over from within his precious emerald gems. The look in his eyes is of pleading and of sorrow, brimming with apologies and regrets and the blatant fact that he just can't do this anymore.

For it is all but just a mere game, built on masks and facades and lies and secrets, a temporary fix for their pleasure and their lusts made to cope with the unbearable longing for their far away significant others. A delusional play they created to escape the boredom and languor of their jaded lives.

The waves lap and crash down onto the shore, as their figures bask in the rays of the waning sunlight; the colors of the sunset bathing their bodies in a pale, orange, ethereal glow.

One last kiss – now chaste and gentle and sadly sweet, shared between the pair as their final farewell. It is simple, sincere, and short-lived.

England is, naturally, the first to let go.

Their game is put to an end as the sun sets down and sinks into the depths of the fathomless waters of the cold, azure sea.

-x-

Now they are back to the present times and are forced to face reality. There are no more kisses and no more games. No more lustful gazes, nor playful smirks. Only pointing guns and clashing swords; none of which are masks or façades of anything any longer.

For Spain's is an empire upon which the sun never sets; and England's is an empire upon which the rain never ends and the sun never shines. And it's futile, Arthur knows, to wish for a love that will never come to light.

He is Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo, the invincible Spanish Armada; and _he_ is Arthur Kirkland, the supreme British Empire. Fighting is considered natural, and war is deemed to be inevitable. They are rivals for they are opposites; and above all and everything else, they are sworn to become enemies.

_Because that's all that he is, and that's all that they are; and that's all that they ever will be._

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Reviews are loved. Flames are not. :)


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